by Andy Remic
Within, Floor 698 was cool, dark, moody. Vertical drapes of primitive helk-fur tapestry decorated walls, and the floors were layered in metal-weave helk leather. Voloshko sat on a wide couch, reclining with a drink in one hand, a kube in the other.
“It’s progressing with the perfection of a well-oiled machine,” he said. He smiled, sipping at his drink as the person on the other end spoke. Voloshko nodded slowly, considering.
“When do you think you’ll send them?”
He nodded again at the response.
“Yes. The timing would be... adequate. Talk soon.”
He killed the communication, and glanced up, over, across the massive low-ceilinged chamber to where a low plinth of alloy-marble held the unconscious form of Mel. Voloshko stood, moved across the floor (which shivered ever so gently under his footsteps, as if he were walking across living, breathing, quivering flesh) and gazed down at the deformed monstrosity.
Her eyes flickered open.
Voloshko smiled. “Good morning, pretty one.”
“Grwwll.” She lunged, but wires around arms and legs, face and elongated neck, glowed suddenly, tightening. There came a stench of charred flesh, and smoke rose in tiny curls from her mottled skin. With a squeal of pain Mel slumped back to the plinth.
“HotWire,” said Voloshko. He ran a hand through his hair, looking suddenly tired. “We find it works superbly against you... zombies.” He smiled sardonically. “Not just pain, but a promise of fire and extermination. And even you, my beautiful little experiment, have enough self-preservation to understand the difference between life—and death.”
Voloshko peered close. Mel growled again, a few inches from his face. He reached out, stroked her skin, observing with interest the incredibly fine mesh of wire which coated her. His hand dropped, brushing her breasts, with their huge plum-sized distended nipples oozing grey pus. Mel snapped at him, jaws grinding, and growled, lunged again, and the wires glowed orange. She thrashed on the plinth, Voloshko forgotten as the wires ate into her and filled her world with bright insect pain.
“We could have had so much fun, my pretty,” he said, licking damp lips as his gaze lingered on her pus-drooling, quivering, raw, pink zombie vagina. He nodded, as if imagining some intimacy of the flesh. An image of sexual coupling of hardcore stamina. “Yes,” he breathed, growing hard in an instant. “So much fun.”
“Voloshko!”
Voloshko turned, eyes narrowed, and watched Dr Oz walk easily towards him. He glanced left and right, scanning for... something out of place. Despite their business arrangement, Voloshko trusted no man.
“Oz. You got my message.”
“You have done well,” Oz said, staring at Mel. “You retrieved our unfortunate mistake.”
“She looks different to the others. More... advanced.”
Voloshko caught the barriers falling into place behind Oz’s eyes, as the sole owner of NanoTek gave a short nod. “The product of mistaken identity, I am sure. All that matters is that we have her.” He slapped Voloshko on the back, and it took all of Voloshko’s willpower not to take a gun and blow Oz’s head clean off. Technically, they were in the same business. But even slime can hate slime. However, Oz was not to be underestimated. He probably had a wealth of military upgrades stashed in his pants.
Dr Oz spoke quietly into a PAD, and gave several codes. He glanced at Voloshko. “My people will transport her from here. Your finances are being transferred as we speak. I won’t forget this. Your loyalty. It is appreciated.” He lifted his finger, pointing at Voloshko as if he were... Voloshko smiled a bland smile on thin lips. As if he were a normal person.
“It’s my pleasure to serve,” forced Voloshko, voice tight, but the irony seemed lost on Oz. Four large Slabs entered from a distant door, and one administered a jab to Mel’s eye. The needle slid into her eyeball and she screamed, thrashed for a few moments, then was still.
“Direct to the brain,” said Oz.
“Primitive,” said Voloshko.
“It will keep her sane, lucid, and controllable.” Oz shrugged, then gestured to the Slabs who grunted, heaving Mel between them, and staggered off across the undulating flesh floor. Oz followed, and stopped at the door. He turned.
“There was something else?” said Voloshko. He was feeling irritable. Used, somehow. Abused. Ironic, because that was usually how he himself operated.
For once, Voloshko did not know the bigger picture, and this irked him. After all, he owned The Hammer Syndicate. It was his gig. The City ran, partially, under his rule. He knew who was stealing what, who was fucking who, who lived... and who died. There were few to challenge his authority.
“Did you... kill the others?”
“We killed the children.”
“No, the two men—Keenan and Franco.”
“They weren’t with the subject. Why? Do you need them taking out?”
“I have people on it,” said Oz. He glanced around. “But I’d... lock your flaps, or whatever it is you do for security in this organic hive. It’s possible Combat K might come looking for Mel.”
“I am sure they will. Don’t worry. My security systems are adequate,” said Voloshko, voice cold, and he watched Dr Oz vanish into a rippling flesh valve. He glanced back to the bed where his wife, Melissa, lay. The very same wife who had betrayed him... an act which still tasted sour on his tongue, in his brain... and yet one he was willing to now overlook since her transformation into deviant. It was a sultry deformation he could not resist.
“Are you coming?” came the crackling voice of Melissa, the zombie, behind thin black curtains. Her outline seemed to shimmer, inhuman, as if lit by silver. Voloshko licked needful lips.
“I soon will be,” he said, striding forward and loosening his tie.
~ * ~
Keenan stared at the Realtime TuffMAP™ (the funky groovy way to find your way around the universe, dude!) Franco stood close behind, D5 in wide steady paws, his eyes bleak and focused. “There.”
“I see it,” said Keenan, finger tracing the lines of the old underground tube system. “You know they’re condemned, right?”
Franco gave a cold smile. “Yeah. But we’ll find a way through. If they’re still standing. First, we need weapons, Keenan. We need bombs, and guns, and armour. This is a savage gig.”
Keenan gave a nod, stood, and folded the TuffMAP™ into his WarSuit. “We don’t know if the old SPIRAL SP1_store still exists; maybe SPIRAL cleaned them out during their final war.”
“No,” said Franco, shaking his head. “They didn’t have time. They were wiped out so fast the bastards couldn’t even blink.”
Keenan took a deep breath. “We take MICHELLE to the stores, tool up, then infiltrate The Hammer Syndicate HQ—possibly through the tunnels, if we can find an access point. That way we avoid the gathering zombie armies. Then we rescue Mel, take Xakus to NanoTek, restore Mel to full health and find out how to switch off these zombie deviants. Then we hunt down the kit needed to allow Xakus to decode the junks’ SinScript. Easy.” His eyes sparkled, and he sucked in cool city air. “I always did like a challenge.”
Franco slapped him on the back, barking a laugh. “Yeah Keenan. Just like the old days, hey lad?”
“Yeah, the old days,” muttered Keenan, remembering the bad ones.
“Bah, you’re a grumpy old git.”
“It must be the people I meet.”
“No no, Keenan, I swear, the older you get, the more of a miserable bastard you become. You’ll stop celebrating your birthday soon; tell everyone not to buy you presents and lock yourself in the bloody toilet for the day.”
“My birthday?” Keenan gave a cynical smile. “That’s just something that happens to other people.”
From the edges of the skyscraper came a buzzing sound, and five guns tracked Cam as he zipped up into the air, hovered for a moment, then dropped like a stone to sit solid and stable in the pollution before Keenan’s face. Keenan held up a hand, and smiled. “It’s OK. He’s a friend.”
He squinted. “You are a friend, right?”
“Keenan, we need to talk. This is important!”
“Nice to see you, too, Cam. Been holidaying in the sun, have we? Machine, you wouldn’t believe the shit we’ve been through in the last twenty-four hours.” He stared at Cam’s shell, which was battered and dented, and showed deep fresh surface scars.
Cam gave a little cough. Which was odd, because PopBots had no throat.
“So you’ve been in the wars yourself?” said Keenan, more gentle now.
“Yes,” sighed Cam. “I found the battery upgrades I required, and repaired and charged myself. However, something sent a couple of HK PopBots to wipe me out.”
“Hunter Killers? They’re vicious little bastards.”
“Exactly. I am not exactly equipped to deal with full-on military models. The fight was long and hard, I can assure you.”
“Who sent them?”
“A question at the forefront of my mind,” said the tiny little ‘bot. “After all, I am nothing but a personal security device. Yes? Why expend the time, effort and cost of HKs on little old me?”
“You killed them?”
“I did,” said Cam, voice distant.
“How?”
Cam spun, lights glittering red. “It’s a long story, for another time. What’s important, Keenan, is what’s going on down there. On the streets. In the malls. With the... deviants. The zombies, as you like to call them.”
“You’ve been monitoring?”
“Oh yes, and you’re not going to like what I have to tell.”
“Try me,” said Keenan.
“This is how it goes. The zombies are humans and other race organisms that have taken biomod organic upgrades. These upgrades have then deviated the host system to produce a wide variety of mutations. You with me so far?”
“Hardly rocket science,” grunted Franco.
“Some of us have a limited intellect,” said Cam.
“Hey, you referring to me? Let me tell you,” he pointed his stubby finger, “I might not have a triple degree in psykey... in sarky... in damn mind games, but I’m cleverer than a bloody sausage, I promise you that.”
“A bloody sausage?”
“Don’t be disrespecting the sausage. A hot-dog has more guile than you think.”
Cam considered this, then, moving on, said, “It’s incredible what one can witness from an aerial perspective out on the streets.” Cam remained unperturbed as Franco made threatening hand gestures. “The behaviour of the deviated organisms is strange; some have grouped together, formed almost military units which have taken over SAM sites, military depots, communications towers; they seem to have learned from their surroundings, adapted, almost like machines, and some have created an unbreachable fortress down in DOG Town and CoreCentral. Quad-Gal Military could retake The City, but at a great, great loss. It would either have to use a mass infantry incursion—or simply clean huge sections of the planet of all life. But, of course, the Commandments would never allow such genocide to occur. Even mutations have rights; as laid down in the New QGL Scripts post-Helix.”
Keenan stroked his stubbled chin. “We’ve seen as much on our travels, Cam. What you’ve witnessed, it means only that the deviated creatures are fighting to survive. They know the army could attack at any minute in SAM proof dropships; all they’ve done is throw up basic defences. Any rat fights when its back is against a wall.”
“Yes, but I’ve also seen behaviour at odds with the group mentality. Some of these creatures are acting independently. However, the strangest thing of all are the... how can I put this? The zombie killers.”
“You mean humans fighting for their lives?”
“No. There is a breed, or a strain, whatever you wish to call them, which are actively hunting down and destroying other deviants. They are awesome in their killing prowess.”
“You think they retain characteristics?” said Keenan. “From when they were human? After all, Mel still seemed to have feelings for Franco despite being an eight-foot monstrosity. Maybe the mutations only mask certain character traits. Biomods turn a person into a monster, but inside, they still retain some human desires and needs. Or alien desires and needs. Or whatever.” He rubbed his temples. “This is insane. It’s turning my brain into spaghetti.”
“There’s one other thing,” said Cam.
“Go on.”
“The zombies are emitting... signals.”
Keenan and Franco exchanged glances. “What does that mean?” said Franco, eventually. “Or am I being a short-arsed dumb ginger bastard again?”
“Each deviant emits a tiny, almost unrecognisable, but nevertheless powerful, digital signal burst. At a rate of about one burst per hour.”
“What kind of signal?”
“They are encoded beyond my ability to decrypt.”
“Wait a minute,” said Keenan. “I watched you decode logic cubes in Pippa’s skull when we lifted her from the prison planet, Hardcore. That was high-tec military shit. You’re good at this, right?”
“I admit to having some skill in this field,” said Cam. “However, the signal bursts from the zombies are far beyond my current skill-set. I hate to say it, but whatever data is being transmitted by the mutations, it’s totally indecipherable. I cannot crack the codes.”
“Where do the signals go?”
“A barren wasteland at The City’s northernmost hemisphere. The one place The City’s engineers will not build—where lines of latitude and longitude meet. Zero degrees, my friend.”
“Convenient,” said Keenan.
“Probably a relay point,” said Cam. “Throws trackers off the scent. The signals are so advanced they could be bounced to a million other points before final destination. We’d never hunt them down, if that’s what you’ve got in mind.”
“How come,” said Franco, voice measured, “these zombies are sending signals? They’re not wireless radio stations, are they? I thought they were just people full of little robots gone wrong? Little bloody buggers rampaging through your sewage streams and turning your belly inside out?”
“That’s incredibly mentally adroit of you,” said Cam. “If we find out why the deviants are transmitting, we’ll probably find answers to the whole screwed up debacle being played out on this devastated planet.”
“Let’s get moving,” said Keenan, glancing over to where Knuckles was still crying over the corpse of Little Megan. Olga helped the orphan to his feet. His eyes were red-rimmed—-and filled with a deep and burning rage. Keenan glanced to Professor Xakus, who seemed oddly aloof; cool, detached, staring out over the darkened city where distant fires burned and occasional gunshots shattered the oppressive silence. The City felt like a city under siege; a world of darkness and despair. Keenan shivered. “Xakus? You still with us?”
“Yes. We will reach NanoTek. I will discover what went wrong. This place has become an abomination. The biomods were never meant for this; they were supposed to save life, not destroy it.”
Keenan’s smile was touched with evil. “The lament of every bio-weapon engineer and scientist on every damned world between here and Ket. We didn’t mean it. It was an accident. Pitiful.”
“In this case, however, true,” said Xakus, eyes full of silver tears.
“Tell it to the dead,” said Keenan, his voice hard, head pounding and robbing him of sympathy and understanding. “The living no longer have time for excuses.”
~ * ~
They stood on the pavement. Rubble lay strewn in huge scatters. Franco stared constantly about, twitching, eyes gleaming, looking for trouble. The night was sable, skyscrapers and cubeblocks rearing and blocking out what few stars still shimmered. Again, thick oily snowflakes fell, coating the world in a slippery, evil-smelling grime. MICHELLE squatted against the side of The Happy Friendly Sunshine Assurance Company, and seemed to be preening herself, if that was the right word for a fifty foot tall biomechanical war organism. She stood when Xakus appeared, and leered down with several booming clan
ks from her great height. Franco squawked, and jumped back, cocking his Kekras.
“I... wouldn’t do that,” said Keenan.
“She bloody freaks me out,” snapped Franco.
“She’s our transport.”
